


Memories of Desh'ea

by Sister of Silence (Orcbait)



Series: Ars De Esse Parenti [4]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Dark Past, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Paradise Lost, Psychological Torture, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orcbait/pseuds/Sister%20of%20Silence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/><br/>Nuceria... The Red Sands of Desh'ea...<br/>It had been a hard life. Into the pits, out of the pits. Blood sticks. Sweat drips. Beasts scream.<br/>And the sands run red as men die.</p><p>The Deshe'lika Mountains...<br/>Run from home. Burn the bridge. Kill persuers. They had been so close.</p><p>Deshalin Ridge... Armies of the High Riders...<br/>Armies left. Armies right. A ridge, a cliff, no way to turn.  They had been so close.</p><p>A majestic saviour, clad in gold and thunder. They had been <em>so</em> close.<br/>Angron recognized chains when he saw them. Golden chains, maybe, but chains nonetheless.</p><p>They had been so close.</p><p>So very close.</p><p>To <em>freedom</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Red Twist - A Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vividwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividwings/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Children of Gods, Children of Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/709836) by [vividwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividwings/pseuds/vividwings). 



> A gift for Vividwings, and a homage to her crazily amazing idea of the "What If: The Primarchs had Daughters?'. Please read her drabbles and visit her DeviantArt page! 
> 
> 'Memories of Desh'ea' is a collection of vignette-chapters about Ankeara and her beleaguered relationship to her bellicose father and primarch, Angron. WARNING: Mature themes - I do _NOT_ promote any of the morally duplicitous aspects of this vignette series.

 

She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror, her eyes on the thin trail of superficial cuts winding along her slender waist. Her triumph rope was not very long, not very impressive - unlike her sire's. She had black twists: every single one of them a defeat, a failure, a painful memory of her copious shortcomings. Her gaze shifted to her fist, still buried in the splintered mirror. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she ground her knuckles against the shattered glasswork and stared balefully at her reflection. She _hated_ her reflection.

'You are strong, a _warrior_ ,' that's what centurion Khârn said.

'You are not some sniffling _weakling_ ,' that's what her sire said.

She disagreed. She was too tall, too thin: all wiry limbs and bony joints. Her long, shorn up and dreadlocked dark hair was dull as shadow, her pale eyes blue as a wintery sky. Her features were too stubborn, too sharp; her lips too thin and her nose too straight, too aquiline. She envied Athyrea with her perfect proportions and soft features and charming smile. _Everybody_ loved _her_. 

She wondered if he would have loved her more if she had been pretty, charming – a _princess_ like Athyrea? She scowled at herself. She doubted it: her sire did not care for outward appearances. She must be too weak, then. He despised weaklings. She must become stronger – train more, cry less. Surely, then he would love her.

She removed her fist and stared dully at her ruined knuckles. The skin had torn, oozing blood and plasma. She could see the pale bone underneath the thin layer of shredded flesh. It had chafed. Even her bones were weak. She looked back at the mirror, now splattered with her blood. She bared her teeth at her reflection and growled as she dug her fingertips among the shimmering splinters, prying at the large shard stuck in their midst. Her skin broke anew as she clawed at the sharp edges, dug her fingers underneath it and tore it free. She clenched her hand around the jagged shard, numbing herself to the biting pain.

After a moment she slowly brought it up to her chest and to the spot where the rope ended. There were many black twists there. The tip touched her skin and bit into her flesh. The line was thin and straight and wept bloody tears. She discarded the shard and reached for the small pile of fillings in front of her, ground from the shard of bronze encased ceramite that lay beside it. She clenched her teeth as she rubbed the metal dust on the cut. It stung ferociously. She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent the tears from spilling. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain that tore at her heart.

  


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The backhand struck the side of her face like a sledge hammer. A cry of shock and pain escaped her despite herself. She stumbled and dropped the dataslate as she fell to her hands and knees, her ears ringing from the unanticipated blow. Her jaw ached and her cheek stung as the steely taste of blood welled up in her mouth. Water brimmed in her eyes but she squeezed them shut. She must not cry. She was not a weakling.

A gasp escaped her when his large hand closed around the base of her neck and shoulders like a vice, and hoisted her up into the air as if she weighed nothing at all. The world span and for a heartbeat or two she flew - and then her wings were ripped away and she collided heavily against the plasteel wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes and pain flared sharply in her chest. She gasped and coughed as she slumped to the floor, the air knocked clean out of her lungs. Her stomach turned and bile rose in her throat as she fought against the vertigo in her head and tried to blink the stars from her eyes. Through the blur she saw him stalk towards her, his broad frame blotting out the light of the electroscones. She struggled to sit up, ground her teeth to stop the tears from spilling. She tried not to let him see how much it hurt.

“I am sorry, father,” she whispered. Her voice shook as she weathered his wrathful gaze but her words only seemed to anger him further, his features contorting with rage. She cringed – stopped herself, but he had seen it and his hand flexed into a fist once more.

“No! Angron, stop!” Khârn’s shout rang through the silent room. She heard his rapidly approaching footfalls. “It’s not Ankeara’s fault!” He burst into her vision and put himself bodily between them, his hands raised in a placating gesture that would have no effect. “She merely compiled the report!” He steeled himself, she could tell from the way he squared his shoulders. “If there is anyone to blame, it is me. I was in command!” The furious roar that tore itself from her sire’s throat rattled her bones and shook her very soul. She curled up, whimpering pitifully, unable to bear that terrifying sound. 

Khârn never stood a chance. 

Swift as lightning Angron struck, his large fist slamming into the Astartes’ face with a force that would have pulped the skull of a lesser man. Khârn reeled, blood gushing from his once more shattered nose as he faltered and started to fall. Angron caught him by his face and dragged him in close, blood oozing through his broad fingers. He crouched and turned, dragging the mangled Astartes along as he grabbed the belt of Khârn’s armour and put him across the room like an oversized shot. With a bone splintering force Khârn collided against the far wall, leaving a formidable dent in his wake as he slid numbly to the ground. Angron stormed after him, howling, blinded by his rage. He grabbed Khârn by the back of his neck and slammed him against the steel grating of the floor. Ankeara curled up further and closed her eyes but could not ignore the sounds - the heavy pounding that shook the very ground she lay upon. Again and again it came, as steady and predictable as the terrified beating of her heart. She made herself as small as she could. Eventually, he would grow weary. Eventually, he would stop.

It always felt like an eternity but in reality it must be mere minutes. The sounds stopped and she dared open her eyes. Her father stood over Khârn with his back towards her, his broad shoulders heaving with his laboured breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Khârn did not move. She watched as her sire dropped heavily to his knees, his fists balled as he beat them against the ground until they were red with his own blood. He howled and hunched and grasped at his skull, drawing bloody smears across his coppery skin and the painful augmetics lodged there. His muscles locked and his body shook and the sight of his suffering tore at her heart.

She moved and white hot pain shot through her chest – something must have broken again. She ground her teeth and struggled up. His howls were quieting into grunts, his breathing was slowing and his heart rate was dropping, and she needed to be there for him. After the anger, came guilt… and then more anger. She ignored the pain and dragged herself to him. Even now, as he knelt and shook, violence exuded from him like heat but she paid it no heed. She did not fear her sire. She did _not._

“I am all right, father,” she managed softly as she put a gentle hand to his shoulder. “Khârn will be fine, too.” She dared not look at the unmoving Astartes. He had to be fine. He _would_ be fine. It was her fault – she was weak, she could not withstand her sire’s rage. Khârn would not let her; he would stand between them and take the beating meant for her. He suffered because of her - It was all her fault.

She could hear her sire’s teeth grind together. “It is… n-not… _fine_ …” he growled out. Blood flecked spittle stained his lips.

“It is,” she replied firmly as she pulled herself up beside him and put her small hand across his large one. “There’s no harm done,” she continued, and she almost convinced herself. “It will heal.”

He shook his head and meant to speak but only a growl came out as his hands clenched into fists once more. The knuckles went white and she could feel the tendons underneath her small hand thrumming with contained fury. 

“It _will_ be fine,” she said, and she had to believe it. She put her arms around his thick neck and hugged him tightly. When he lifted a bloody hand to her back and pressed her to him, she could no longer stop her tears from falling. She buried her face against his broad shoulder so he would not see, and bit her lower lip so that he would not hear. Someday, she’ll be stronger. Someday, he’ll feel better. Someday… everything _will_ be all right.  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror as she raised her hand to her cheek and brushed past the mark outlining itself there in harsh blue. She pressed her own knuckles to it and saw how much larger those upon her skin were. His anger had left its mark on her. It always did. It did not matter. They were all right again, now.

She reached for the discarded mirror shard. This time, it did not hurt when she cut a new twist for her rope. This time, she did not reach for the ceramite dust. For this time, it was a red twist – a victory.

  


\-------------------------------FIN-------------------------------

  



	2. Blood And Sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this chapter is a part of 'Unintended' and features an incident at the ball Fulgrim is organising at that time. It may be moved to that story, when we get there. For now, it will live here.
> 
> I have nothing to say for myself - I simply enjoy writing about their horrible, horrible past.

 

 

The moment Angron had risen from his seat in response to Lorgar taking over Ankeara from Dorn as a dance partner, Constance had known bad things were about to happen. However, she had not expected _this._

Angron had been barely half way, pointing one of his cruel axes at Lorgar, growling insults and threats she dared not even think. He had been barely half way, when he suddenly froze. A spasm had pulled through his arm, the knotted muscles flexing erratically. His hand twitched, jerked away as if he had accidentally touched something hot. His axe fell from his grasp with a rattle of chain.

_His axe fell._

And then he had fallen too. The sound of his armoured form collapsing onto the polished marble reverberated through the suddenly deathly quiet hall. The music abruptly stopped.

“Angron!” Ankeara’s shocked cry had pierced through the hall like a warp gale. She was already halfway there by the time the primarch’s battered frame thundered against the floor, her running feet beating against the smooth stone like twin war drums. Centurion Khârn was hot on her heels. She fell to her knees beside her lord-father when the first convulsions took hold of him. 

“Angron! Angron!” Ankeara kept calling his name, her slender hands pawing and petting at his scarred head. His pale, green eyes rolled up in their sockets, showing near all white. Blood flecked froth leaked from the corners of his mouth and his jaw worked, audibly grinding his teeth. Centurion Khârn struggled to hold the thrashing primarch’s shoulders down as Ankeara cradled his head in her lap, desperate in their attempts to keep him from hurting himself.

It was terrible to see.

There was a long pause born of utter astonishment, of shock and incredulity, as if reality itself momentarily held its breath. And then everyone reacted at once. Horus came running, followed by Fulgrim, the Mournival in tow with captain Abaddon as ever leading. Her own lord-father, Rogal Dorn, stood rooted to the floor, a shocked rictus plastered on his face like a death mask. Lucrece fainted in Eidolon’s arms. Athyrea gasped and ran for her mother. Leah buried her face in Lorgar’s chest; he embraced her tightly and glanced away too. And all the while, Ankeara kept pleading his name:

_Angron. Angron. Angron_

Over and over.

Constance herself, she was overcome by the chaotic mess of emotions bursting into the vacuum all but instantly. Her head went light, balance left her and she fell. The last thing she saw was Arlette, vaulting to her feet. Then her sight drew white, followed by utter black as the desperate cries of a child and the mocking laughter of men filled her ears.

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


Freedom had been stolen from him once more.

He clawed after it, raging against the weakness of his own desperation. The bitter taste of failure was acrid in his mouth. Sand gritted between his teeth. Weight pressed in from all around him. His body ached all over, his skin sticky and wet. He clenched his fists. His weapons were not there. He roared, but the deafening sound was oddly muffled, throttled into a whine.

 _Angron!_ A voice called. Distant. Muted. He did not recognise it.

He had been so close this time. So very close. And then the chance of freedom had been stolen from him. Again. It had been stolen from him and he had been dragged back to this world of torn meat and bloody gore and splintering bone. This world where his heart was chained and his mind withered under chronic pain. This world where fury rushed through his veins with the inevitability of an uncontained flood and where his heart thundered in time to the maddening beat of the pain engine hammered into the meat of his brain. He wished for something – anything – to ease the clockwork mutilating his mind.

 _Angron! Angron!_ The voice kept calling. His mind ached as he heard it, pain shooting through the metal stakes beaten into his skull. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to leave him alone. He tried to grasp his head but his limbs would not move. His fingers twitched, his muscles bulged, but moving they did not. They remained pinned at his side. Weight pressed in from all around him. He roared again, tasting dirt as he bellowed for the voice to get out of his head.

For a brief instant the voice fell silent.

_Angron...?_

It was closer now. Mocking laughter resounded behind it. Its halting tone made him grin, though he was not sure why. Perhaps because it stank of uncertainty, of hesitation, and hesitation stank of cowardice. Cowardice was not the fear of death; it was the fear of loss. What worth had a warrior who forged attachments to the fleeting world around him? Everything changed. Everything died. Everything rotted. Attachment was a weakness.

There was a long pause before it came again, and it reeked of fear.

 _Angron? Angron!_ He roared in reply, fury thrumming through his veins thick and searing as molten led. He needed nothing! No one! Attachment was a weakness! He struggled and strained and fought against the weight holding him prone. His body ached with multifarious hurts. His voice cracked and its deep pitch broke as he screamed for release, for freedom, for an end to the pain. If it did not shut up, he would throttle it to silence.

 _Angr—Dad?!_ The shriek pierced through his broken, frantic basal brain like a siren and set the Butcher’s Nails aflame. Pain flared like hot knives in the meat of his mind and warm liquid ran from his nose. He opened his eyes and there was only darkness. No up, no down. His hands flexed into fists and his knuckles cracked as they grasped nothing but packed earth.

 _Dad!_ The shriek rang in his ears and cut into his soul. He bellowed in reply like a cornered beast. He thrashed and kicked and fought and dug and screamed through a mouthful of froth and blood and sand. No surrender. No submission. She called him. She needed him.

And he had been buried alive.

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


The sun was a blinding light after the dark. The touch of its rays seared hot through the torn remnants of her meagre clothing.

She lifted her arm to shield her eyes from the cruel sun and peered around. The sands were deserted. The crumbling tiered galleries too. A cold stone settled in the pit of her stomach. They had lied. _Where is he? He is not here!_

 _Oh, he is here._ A man. His face was a blurred memory. An impression of dark hair and grinning teeth and eyes as cold and grey as the steel of a gladius. _We left him here right before we put you back where you belong._

 _Where is he? Where is Angron?_ She ran out onto the sands. They burned hot beneath her bare feet but she did not care. She rounded on them, one hand clenched around her gladius, the other balled into a fist. Angron had been right, he was always right. They had lied. She should never believe them. Never. _He is not here! You promised he was here!_ The gladius shook in her fist. She had let them hurt her, and it was all for nothing. All for nothing! The Butcher’s Nails pressed hot into her mind and tears of rage stung behind her eyes. Her knuckles went white around the gladius’ pommel. _You promised!_

 _Look harder, you stupid girl._ A second voice. Harsher. Blonde hair. Green, piercing eyes. A scar across a once handsome face. _Or you will never find your daddy._ They laughed. 

She froze. She had heard something, something other than their callous laughter. She had heard a muted call, a bellow whose timbre and pitch were as familiar to her as her own. “Angron!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She ran left and right across the sands, searching even though there was nowhere to hide. He wasn’t here. She had heard him. She knew she had heard him, so he must be here. “Angron! Angron!”

Again she heard him, she was certain it was him. Close now. As if... She stared at the sand beneath her feat. The sun beat down on her shoulders, flushing her coppery skin red, but the cold in her stomach spread and chilled her to the bone. She shivered despite the heat. There was nothing beneath the arena. No pits. Nothing. Only sand. Her hand twitched of its own accord. She never noticed the gladius drop from her grasp. Her fingers flexed as if it were still there. She stared at the sand. “Angron...?”

The Butcher’s Nails tick-tick-ticked laboriously within her brain.

“Angron?” Her eyes widened with terror when realisation sank in. “Angron!” she screamed. She heard him roar, and the sand trembled beneath her bare feet. Tears jumped in her eyes and panic wrenched her throat shut as she fell to her knees and clawed at the sand. Most of it slid right back.

 _You should hurry. He’s been there for a while now._ More laughter. She barely even heard it anymore. She dug as fast as she could. The sun burned her bare back and tears blurred her sight but she kept digging. Until her hands hurt. Until her fingertips bled. Until the sand fell red from her grasp.

 _Angr—Dad?!_ She shrieked when a hand suddenly punched through the red, red sand. A large, calloused hand and corded forearm. It was full of scars, each one familiar. Long gashes lined the palm and forearm, the glistening muscle and ivory bone plainly visible underneath. Blood ran from them like crimson tears.

She reached for the mutilated limb with trembling hands and pressed it against her cheek. Tears mingled with blood and painted lines down her face like crimson war paint. His hand pawed at her face, feeling its shape. She leaned close, and the broad fingers slipped under her chin and closed around her throat. _Dad!_ She shrieked and struggled, her bare feet kicking up sand as she was slammed against the ground. Her cheek ground into the sharp grains and the fingers only tightened, and tightened.

She gasped for breath. Her hands now clawing at skin instead of sand, drawing fresh gauges, leaving bloody smears. Laughter rang in her ears as something shifted in her throat that should not shift, and she could breathe no longer.

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


+Constance+

Laughter.

She cried out as a mountain meraglion tore into him with a hungry roar. She pulled at her bonds until the chafed skin broke, crying out his name as the great predator lunged for his throat.

Laughter.

Hard muscle all around. She curled up in a tiny ball within his embrace, his broad back shielding her from the worst of the lash.

Laughter.

Cold stone pressed against her cheek, his large frame warm and comforting above her, keeping her safe. Tears shot into her eyes as a sudden, crippling pain stabbed into her abdomen.

Laughter.

Always the laughter – hard, cruel, mocking laughter and cheers and shouts and screams for more. More blood. More pain. More death. The inhuman noise of a crowd of tens of thousands crazed on bloodshed echoed in her mind until it was all she could hear. How she loathed it. How she wished it would stop. The disjointed images followed each other in rapid succession, flashing past ever faster. Until they jolted to a suddenly stop.

+Constance, come back+

The voice was warm and soothing as honey, firm as steel. She could feel the darkness lessen; see it slowly grow more opaque. A comforting presence filled her thoughts and her mind finally came to rest. It left an impression of familiar features. Of a bemused smile, reserved but not unkind. And of gentle brown eyes regarding her quietly. 

“Father…?” Constance murmured.

+Wake up+

Slowly consciousness returned to Constance and darkness blurred back into sight, though it remained fuzzy and indistinct at the edges. Someone leaned over her, holding the side of her head. It took a long moment before she recognised who.

“Arlette,” Constance croaked. Her voice was dry and soar. The Sister of Silence did not reply, safe by brushing a strand of hair from Constance’s face. A light, concerned frown creased her ever stolid features. She nodded to herself, as if in answer to a question she had never asked. With her help, Constance sat up. Her head ached with a pain as if it would soon burst. She knew what she had seen, even if she did not understand why. Her gaze darted around, searching.

Ankeara sat on the floor; her arms clung around the broad chest of a particularly large Astartes, her fingers digging at the ceramite plate. White paint flaked from it like so many unshed tears. It was a World Eater. Constance was not sure of his name. _Solax_ , she thought. _Captain of Third_. She shook her head. _No. Centurion. Of Third_. She corrected herself. The rank was equivalent to captain.

Ankeara’s eyes were squeezed shut, but water brimmed under her lashes. Her jaw was clenched tight and tinged an ugly blue, a muscle twitched in her cheek. Blood ran down her chin. Her nose bled profusely and her lower lip had split. Red imprints of large fingertips ran along her neck, too widely spaced for an Astartes. Even one as big as centurion Solax.

Constance gaze found Angron of its own accord. He was sitting up. He seemed all right. Horus held his arm twisted firmly behind his back anyway. Centurion Khârn was beside them, speaking in words they were too far away for her to hear. Angron shook his brother’s touch with a snarl. He called out, a word she didn’t recognise. It sounded foreign. _Nehrine_ or _Nehrime_ or something like that.

Ankeara wrestled herself from the centurion’s hold, despite his half-hearted attempt to keep her from succeeding. She kicked and screamed and rammed her elbow into his face and slipped through his momentarily weakened grasp. She sprang up and vaulted towards Angron, shoving her way past Fulgrim and Loken and Aximand and Abaddon and even Horus. She flung her arms around Angron’s neck and buried her face in his chest and finally cried with heaving sobs that shook her frame. Angron’s arms wrapped around her like arming cables, securing her to his chest and shielding her from the world and all that would hurt her. All but himself.

Captain Abaddon shifted, as if of a mind to approach. Angron’s murderous stare fixed him in place as surely as a stake would have. The primarch rose, cradling Ankeara in his arms. Despite her stature she seemed so very small compared to him.

Nobody else acted.

A muscle twitched the left side of Angron’s face into a grimace. He bared teeth stained crimson by his own blood with a growl. It was a low, rumbling, harsh sound. Defensive. Challenging. Like the snarl of a great beast, driven into a tight corner. The others gave him a wide breadth and he stalked off without a word. 

The World Eaters present at the ball slinked after him like beaten hounds.

Now everybody knew their shame.

As he passed, centurion Khârn gave captain Abaddon a look of mute helplessness. The First Captain simply stood there, watching them leave. And though he was surrounded by his Mournival brothers, he felt he stood alone.

Forlorn.

  


\-------------------------------FIN-------------------------------

  



	3. Wishful Thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a chapter for 'Bedroom Hymns' but as per usual I wrote stuff that won't fit into that part of this series any time soon yet, so again, it will live here for now.
> 
> FYI - Lucrece is Fulgrim's daughter. It revolves around Angron and Ankeara (Angron's daughter); and the fact that Lucrece is just... Lucrece. ./facepalm.

 

 

At first, she had thought they were fighting. They fought regularly. For training. For real, too.

It had been a peculiar bruise. The palm too wide and the fingers too long and broad even for Zeki to have left such an imprint upon Ankeara’s skin. It had been right across her bicep, as if someone had forcefully grabbed her arm. However, the thumb-print was on the _inside_.

The sounds echoed through the deserted amphitheatre as Lucrece made her way up the steep steps to the tiered balconies above. Only from up there would she be able to look down upon the sands. She knew they were here. She could not see them, but she could hear them plenty: grunts and cries and growls and even more beastly sounds. They rang through the quiet and Lucrece wrinkled her nose in disgust.

The amphitheatre itself was nothing if not complex and enormous; a monument to the ingenuity of Imperial architecture even if its makers resented it being called so. Lucrece climbed only to the tier right above her, the third of a total of eight, together rising nearly a hundred metre in height. The amphitheatre formed a hollow through eight separate decks and was several hundreds of metres across. It was the very belly of the ‘Conqueror’, the World Eaters brutal flagship, and they were duly proud of it. She had been here during games, to witness the blood sports played out across the sands. Her Lord-Father disapproved of it, but he could not risk a decline and insult his choleric brother, nor deny his beloved sons the sport.

The amphitheatre was a grand, elliptical structure, with a facade domineering and bellicose – a vision of a place where life was short and brutal. As Lucrece’s gaze wandered across the thousands of tiered seats below the high strung banners of conquered enemies, she could almost hear the cheering and shouting, the clashing of steel upon steel. The heraldry of the World Eater legion and famous arena champions lined the Primarch’s Walkway along the centre tier. Here, in the most magnificent of the Conqueror’s many arenas, primarchs and champions from across the legions fought for glory, cheered on by hundreds of thousands of voices raised as one. She knew the amphitheatre could seat over 200.000; enough for their entire legion with room to spare.

However, the amphitheatre was quiet now, its tiered galleries deserted, its banners hanging still and its crenelated boundaries lost in deep shadows. Silence reigned, broken only by the two figures below, grappling on the sands.

Lucrece had thought they were fighting. They were struggling, all right. They pushed and shoved at one another with unbridled force. Her more slender arm bruised blue under his broad fingertips and his skin tore under her sharp fingernails, weeping crimson tears in their wake. They were naked but for the meagre attire of gladiators. And it wasn’t until she saw the way in which their hips pressed together that she realised they were not fighting at all. He leaned down to nuzzle her as his hips pushed against hers, a growl in the back of his throat. She nuzzled back and pressed a kiss to his scarred lips. He returned the gesture awkwardly, all but licking her lips and cheek the way a dog might and a proper lover never would. Lucrece saw it was affectionate, but found it disgusting. The trail of saliva he left on her marred skin was flecked with blood. They were not fighting at all. They were going at it, right there. 

It was a peculiar sight, seeing them so upon the grey, volcanic sands. It was as if they coupled amid ashes, under the looming shadows cast by the ruins of their brutal and broken lives. On the sands, surrounded by tiered galleries and banners, victories and losses, as if the past had not deigned fit to let go of them just yet. Lucrece could almost see the flickering flames dance among the colonnades, smell the smoke and the fire and the blood. Hear the snarl of beasts and the cries of those yet alive and left dying. And through it all sounded the cries coming from their throats, as they coupled in the ash that was not ash, streaked in sweat and sand and blood that made their coppery skin dull and creviced like cracked mud. Ignorant to the dirt and the publicity of the place. Beneath them, the ash had run red with their blood. 

Despite the distance to the arena below, Lucrece could see and hear them clearly – every movement, every draw of breath, every sigh, every groan – as if she stood right there beside them, her bare feet upon the sands. She could not help but stare longingly as her cousin was fucked by her savage sire. She wasn’t surprised at what she saw. Not truly. They and their Legion, they were an uncultured, barbaric lot. To them, kinship meant an easy catch, a suitable mate. She had always suspected it, of course. Her cousin’s defensiveness of her sire’s outrageous behaviour. His overt aggression towards any and every man that dared to come near her. Poor Zeki, he had never stood a chance. It had been all too obvious, to her. No, she was not surprised. Not at all. Lucrece absently licked her lips as she observed them. They had suddenly gone dry. Her throat too.

Her cousin slipped from her sire’s grasp then and sped away, nimble and fast across the arena floor. He roared and charged after her, sand flying in his wake. His call bounced around the monumental structure, haunting up like a cry from the past to assault Lucrece’s tender ears, her eyes ever transfixed upon them. And as he sprinted at a speed that defied his great bulk, she glimpsed his erect gender as he pursued his quarry through a corner. The image burned itself into her memory.

Her cousin was fast, but her sire had greater endurance. They had barely done a full lap when her momentum began to flag and he began to steadily gain on her. He closed the distance with a leap that should have been impossible, and barrelled her down to the sands with a force that should have shattered bones. Instead of an agonised scream, there was only laughter: the clear chortling of a young woman amused.

He pinned her down and growled. She chuckled and kicked and punched and wrestled with his arms. A jerk that looked almost too easy flipped her around, the chuckle abruptly knocked out of her as her stomach hit the sands. He promptly pried her kicking legs apart and slammed his hips back against her firm rear. Her expression broke as they briefly froze, and this time it was his chuckle that rolled across the sands, deep and rumbling like a distant avalanche as he roughly petted the side of her head.

Lucrece watched them intently. She had long since sat down on one of the thousands of benches, ignorant to their hard, wooden seats. Her hand slipped under her skirts all by itself, her fingertips lightly stroking the expensive silk of her delicate panties. A little moan escaped her when she pressed the fabric away and slipped a finger inside herself, and another... and another. As she pressed against her own hand she sighed and whimpered and wished to be in her cousin’s place.

Her cousin’s smaller, more slender frame fit neatly beneath him as he mounted her, as if their build had been meant this way. He did not even have to hold her as he took her, leaned upon his hands and knees. Well, not until the force of his thrusts became too much for her to stop, pushing her forward every time his hips slapped against her firm bum.

He shifted and leaned upon his left hand, his right arm encircling her cousin’s narrower waist. With a jerk he pulled her all but off her knees, securing her against his broad chest as he rammed himself within her. Lucrece could see him force his flesh into her cousin, again and again and again. She could see the tension roll through his abdominal muscles with each thrust – clenching, arching, releasing and snapping back – the fluidity of it oddly mesmerizing. He grunted and panted like an animal exerting itself as he took her. And her cousin struggled and squirmed and squealed under his relentless assault, her fingers clawing in vainly at the grey sands she could now but barely reach. He simply held her up to him, locked in his iron hold. Sweat and blood ran down their muscular bodies, mingling there with the result of their passion. Unseemly. Disgusting. Barbaric. 

And yet Lucrece could not help but moan as she pleasured herself.

When he increased his efforts suddenly, his grunts all but timed with his thrusts, her cousin whimpered and mewled and moaned and called out his name. She clung to the arm he leaned upon, her fingernails digging fresh scratches into his scarred skin. Fluids leaked amply from where their hips joined, and it stained the grey sands beneath them black.

They rutted like animals. And yet somehow, Lucrece could not get herself to look away. Her gaze was inescapably drawn to the rhythmic meeting of their hips like a moth to a flame. The snap of skin upon skin ringing in her ears in time with the beating of her heart.

  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

  


“Lucrece? Lucrece, are you listening?” Her Lord-Father’s voice. He sounded irritated, and a little concerned. The snap of skin against skin melted away into the familiar, heavy ticks of the ancient chronotrap suspended from the apse of the solarium. Slowly, Lucrece’s gaze focussed on the present. The solarium felt warm and bright as if sunlit, despite being on a capital ship’s high deck in the void of space.Fulgrim stood beside her, the invaluable tome he had been lecturing from still in hand. It was an old tome about the classic ages of ancient Terra, one of the last of its kind. He had borrowed this particular one from the Emperor’s private library. It recounted the age of a more ancient imperium, sprawled across the then prosperous Caucasus Wastes, and its line of illustrious conqueror-emperors.

“I am sorry, father,” Lucrece sighed sweetly. “I am tired.”

Fulgrim smiled then, and put the tome down. “Enough then,” he decided, and opened his arms to her. She rose lightly and hugged him, and he embraced her in turn. “There is always tomorrow,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her white curls.

Lucrece nodded, and could not help but melt herself against him, the reward a pleasant shiver down her spine. “I love you, daddy,” she said softly against the fine cloth of his tunic. He smiled and put a hand to her head, holding her close. 

“As I love you, my little angel.”

  


\-------------------------------FIN-------------------------------

  



	4. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Angron ever wanted was to be free, but now that he has it, he's daunted by its vastness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thing I wrote while out in the grain fields of eastern Germany during one of my archaeological excavations. I was simply wandering the countryside when the idea struck me and I penned it down.

The grain haulms suddenly gave way to a vista of undulating hills and insular tree outcrops. The golden stalks had been shorn here, stumps ankle-high like an ocean of broken spears. The sky above was clear and the dawn stained it a warm orange as the sun crept across the foothills. The wind was fresh and soothing and carried the scents of spring.

He could see the horizon. The _horizon_. He had never believed one could see so far as to see the very edge of the world. The sky was the sky and the ground was the ground and they were separated from one another by high walls. The horizon, the line where sky and ground met, had been an incomprehensible thing to him, a fancy of the High Riders. A thing of whimsy that did not exist.

Until now. Now he could _see_ it. He could see the distant mountains, the snaking road, the lonely buildings, in the blur of blue where sky and ground met. He could see the exact place, the exact line, where sky and ground touched. He wondered, if he stood there, could he touch the very dome of the sky? He wondered if he could even stand there, or if the sky was pressed flat against the ground.

He reached a hand back without breaking his gaze from the unforgiving horizon. His fingertips brushed the high grain stalks behind him and he took a step backwards on sudden instinct. Towards the grain stalks. Towards the safety of an enclosed space. The wide open ground felt strange. Unfamiliar. Daunting. It distressed him. His fingertips brushed past the grain stalks behind him. They felt reassuring. Familiar. He bared his sharpened teeth at the open space, as if daring it to come closer.

“Dad?” At the rustle beside him, his hand froze. A slender hand slipped into his, small but hard with calloused tips. His thumb brushed over the little knuckles, reading the crescent scar there as a blind man would an embossed script. He did not need to look beside him to know who it was. He had not even needed to hear the voice, so much like his own and yet infinitely softer, calmer; so much more like his own father's. The corner of his mouth twitched up in what might once have become a smile, but the muscle in his cheek spasmed in protest and it turned into a sneer before disappearing all together. It was easier not to bother.

“Where do we go?” He wondered out loud. His voice was raw, hoarse from misuse and then disuse. It croaked in protest as he spoke, his jaw working as if he were chewing the words before speaking them. His tongue was dry in his parched mouth. He could not remember when last he had drank. He was not thirsty. “Where do we go?” He demanded as his gaze flicked across the endless horizon. There was no end to it.

A shoulder leaned against his biceps, also small, also hard. A second hand joined the first and only together were they able to fully grasp his. His fingers spasmed as he tried to close his hand around them. He could feel the small bones shift under the unintended pressure. A small intake of air was the only sign of discomfort she gave.

More warriors emerged from the wall of grain stalks behind them now. Men and women, young and older, many wounded, many struggled to stand. They eyed the open space as warily as he did, their gazes flicking across it, searching, gauging. Some shrank back towards the grain stalks. His green eyes kept moving, unable to rest. His nostrils flared, his heart pounded, a muscle in his neck twitched. He tried to see it all at once, keep it all in his sight. It was impossible.

“Where do we go?!” He roared with a momentum that cut through the tranquil silence like a peal of sudden thunder. A flock of birds flew up, cawing in distress. A tremor shook his mighty frame as he inhaled deeply, and roared again. As if the sound would keep the openness at bay. “WHERE DO WE GO?!”

Her small hands squeezed his large one. She walked forward, half turning, and tugged him along. She looked at him, her blue eyes shining in the morning light. For the first time since she had grown higher than his elbow a smile graced her lips.

“Where ever we want, dad. Where ever we want.”


	5. Götterdämmerung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had been so close to freedom. Ankaera wanted to believe, but is there anything there to believe in beyond the machinations of a man she does not know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emps no. :(

Dusk was rapidly falling when they reached the precipice. The cliffs stretched themselves before them, a drop easily a hundred metres to the plains below. Angron scowled at them as if the geological formations had personally offended him. They were trapped. He had led them into a trap.

A slender but calloused little hand slipped into his. “I will be courageous,” Ankeara said with all the bravery of her fifteen years as she looked at the dust cloud lining the horizon. She tried to keep her tone flat, but he heard the miniscule tremor anyway. “I am _not_ afraid.”

“Courage… is not the absence of fear,” Angron rasped. His hand twitched as he grasped her slender fingers reassuringly, squeezing them tighter than he had meant to. She didn’t utter a sound. She never did. “But the triumph over it, little tiger.”

A frown creased Ankeara’s brow as she gazed at the approaching armies, far yet but closing fast. “Are you afraid?”

Angron scowled at the horizon. His jaw worked, as if chewing the word before speaking it. “Yes.”

Ankeara’s fragile facade broke and she embraced her father’s waist, her cheek against his midriff as she sobbed. “I don’t… I don’t want to… to d-d…” she hiccuped.

Angron ground his teeth together as he clutched her slim shoulders and held her firmly against him. It was all his fault. He had led them into a trap.

\+ That future is not cast in stone. +

Angron tensed instinctively as Ankeara flinched against him, a brilliant light erupting behind them as if dawn had come early. Slowly, very slowly, Angron turned around, a snarl on his lips as he pushed Ankeara behind him at the sight of the stranger.

Ankeara’s eyes grew large with fright and wonder as she looked from behind her father’s broad back at the figure bathed in a radiant, golden light that flowed from him like an ethereal cloak. He wore armour not unlike her father’s, with cloth of deep crimson and the elaborate chestplate polished to a brilliant sheen. His angular features were weathered and war-torn, his dark hair braided into a warrior’s knot. “Furun-katte,” she whispered in awe.

“Do not fear me,” the ancient Lord of War spoke. His voice was like thunder, like steel covered in honey, like the crack of the lash and a soothing summer’s breeze; like all these things and more. “I have come to take you home, my son.”

Angron growled, bared his teeth at the magnificent stranger. “I am home.”

“Your ‘home’ will be your grave,” the legendary warrior-god predicted grimly.

“So be it,” Angron spat.

Ankeara glanced up at her father, confusion in her blue eyes. Why did he speak so? Did he not realise who it was? Furun-katte had come to them, had come to take them all away, like the old tales told: If the free of heart fought, he would come to their aid and he would break the battle across his knee.

It was then that the great warrior turned to regard her, a melancholic smile defacing his timeless features. And despite it’s infinite sadness, his smile instantly convinced her of his goodness, his deep brown eyes of his kindess. And his calm voice within her mind was bliss and insanity molded into one. He raised a hand and beckoned her, and when he spoke she could not tell him 'no’.

\+ Come, child. +

Ankeara hesitantly stepped forward, her hand lingering on her father’s arm as she appeared from behind him. She glanced up at her father, who stood with his great axe in hand. His knuckles whitened around its haft, his jaw working.

\+ Come. +

She turned her gaze back upon the majestic warrior. He smiled at her and she let go.

It was only a measly few steps to reach him, but the distance seemed to stretch on forever. And yet, she was suddenly at his side. He glanced down at her as he put his hand upon her shoulder, and she felt a shudder of fear under that knowing gaze. Only when his gaze left her could she look away.

She looked back at her father, who still stood upon the precipice. Why would he not come? They could all leave this place, she was certain of it. Furun-katte would make it so.

The great warrior beside her slowly shook his head, his resigned sigh piercing like a mournful wind as he drew her to him and turned. “As you wish, my son.”

* * *

Ankeara stared through the bewitched window in disbelief. She could see everything as dawn crested behind the world: the plains, the precipice, the _slaughter_. “But Furu-.”

“No,” he interrupted. Despite the disapproving tone, she recognised the fabled warrior’s voice. She turned, a bright smile upon her lips, but there was only a man. Her expression fell, her smile replaced by confusion. The man wore robes of white and crimson and laurels of gold crested his brow, his dark hair spilling about his shoulders, his hands clasped behind his back as he came to stand beside her. “Do not call me by that name.”

“You are not-,” Ankeara started angrily, a scowl beginning to form on her features at being deceived by this person who was clearly _not_ Furun-katte. But the moment she formed the accusative thought he glanced sideways at her and their gazes crossed. He might appear different, normal, mortal, a man, but his eyes… his eyes were the same.

“I do not understand.”

“You do not need to,” he replied as he broke his gaze away and glanced out of the starport once more. “And fear not, your father is here.”

Ankeara stared at him in disbelief. “But…” She turned her gaze to the odd window and the world somehow hanging below. If her father was not there… then who… how… Her eyes grew large with apprehension. He had _left_ the battle. “No. No, I must go down.”

His jaw flexed and clenched in a way that was oddly familiar, but he never averted his gaze from the window. “No.”

“Please,” Ankeara implored as she sank to her knees and begged him. “Please, I need to bring father the sand.” She had to return to Desh'ea and retrieve the sand. Her father must cut a black twist and it needed the sand from the battlefield he lost. She looked up through the blur of her unspilled tears at the man who claimed he was not a god, though she had seen it with her own eyes, that he was merely her grandsire.

“Please,” she begged as the water spilled from her eyes. She needed to bring her father the sand.

His regal features all but turned to stone. “No,” he repeated firmly, a frown creasing his brow whose disapproving force she felt upon her soul. “It is time these superstitious nonsense end.”

Ankeara stared at him, aghast, her thoughts derailing. But… but the sand! The black twist, it needed the sand. The sand, the sand, why did he not understand? Without the sand, there was no black twist, no honour: only shame. _Shame_. Why would he condemn her father to shame? She did not understand. She must return to Desh'ea for the sand.

“Father nee–!”

\+ _NO_. +

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: A lot of time and hard work went into the creation and publication of this story and as such it is very dear to me. I would love to hear what you thought of it. And please, share this story freely but credit me and link back to me. Thank you!


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